


Growing Pains

by Covenmouse



Series: The Lion's Roar [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Covenmouse/pseuds/Covenmouse
Summary: The Blue Lions just earned a landslide victory in the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion, commendations from the Archbishop, and the respect of their classmates. Byleth ought to be happy, right? But a stinging conversation with Dimitri during the students’ celebratory feast tips the scales of Byleth’s patience with the entire situation. While Sothis sleeps, Byleth seeks out Jeralt, determined to finally get some answers.





	Growing Pains

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to make a major note, here: I HAVE NOT FINISHED THE GAME. Please, please do not spoil the ending for me, even if something contradicts what I've written here. This was mostly done to get it out of my head.
> 
> While writing this, however, I did get through the ball in the first section of the game and got some information that... sooorta contradicted what I've written here. But those are things--such as Byleth's lack of emotions--that I frankly think are stupid, and am thus substituting with my own explanation. Call it an AU, I guess? IDK. 
> 
> Anyway, if you continue reading, thank you for taking this journey into layman's philosophy hell, seeming unrequited crushes, Daddy Issues(tm), and smart ass goddesses.

_“It’s just that… when we first met, I thought you were cold, emotionless…”_

The words ring in her head, even now that the party has begun to drift apart.

Unlike the parties Byleth was used to, the student’s celebration feast pending the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion broke up fairly early. While the monastery didn’t have a curfew precisely, the dining hall always closed its doors by a certain time and the students still had classes the next day. After a long day of fighting and travel, they seemed happy to find their beds before the shadows grew too long.

It’s all so strange to her. Jeralt kept a tight leash on his Company, sure; tighter than the students here would believe, Byleth suspects. But when the mercenaries had cause to celebrate the party wouldn’t end until long past sun up—when everyone except those on watch had drunk themselves into oblivion, and had time to rouse and put themselves together again the next day. There wouldn’t be “classes” or “work” or anything scheduled, because that was the point of a celebration. 

Then again, this hadn’t been been officially sanctioned by the Archbishop, had it? No. Of course not.

Byleth sighs into her cup—juice, not wine—drains it, and goes to help the crew left cleaning up. Not that there is much of a mess: a handful of plates they’d offered to clear, a few dishes left to wash. Another difference. No alcohol, here; no music or dancing, either. Not unless you counted the hymns, which, no, Byleth most certainly does not. You can’t dance to a hymn. You can’t even sway. 

Not that Byleth wanted to dance after Dimitri… 

“Professor?”

Mercedes’ dulcet voice snaps Byleth from her reverie. She stares at her student, expression frozen in its usual blank mask, as she waits for the question sure to come. 

The girl hesitates, smile belied by her furrowed brow. “I’m sorry I startled you. I was just wondering if you were done with that plate?”

Byleth looks down, and realizes she’s been standing in place holding this same plate for at least a minute. Damn. 

“Yes, sorry.” Byleth adds the plate to the small stack Mercedes is extending toward her, and offers a slim smile. “Thank you. I’m just tired.”

“I understand. It was such a long day! First the ride to the field, and then the battle—not that I did too much.” 

The girl seems a little put out. Byleth doesn’t react, though inwardly she winces. That was her fault. She sent the main party ahead with Dimitri to take the Empire’s stronghold from Bernadette, while a splinter group—including herself and Mercedes—went west to meet a small Golden Deer force. 

Poor, sweet, tiny Bernie who barely got an arrow off before the paladins were on top of her.

The Blue Lions took Ignatz and his support group just as easily, but by then the main body of the Golden Deer was already engaging both the Empire and Dimiti. Byleth ordered the slower members of their party to skirt back east along the river and regroup with Dimitri while she went on to face Claude herself. 

Mercedes could have kept up with her, and would have been a great help, but she had lesser-trained Flayn tagging along. Byleth wanted Flayn to stay with the group. She was determined to get through this battle without a single “casualty.” 

In the end, Dimitri’s group was so fast and strong they’d plowed through both the Empire and Golden Deer forces before the smaller party could rejoin them. For Mercedes, the entire battle must have been more kin to an afternoon stroll.

_ And she doesn’t even realize how lucky she is for that _ , Byleth thinks. But she can’t say that; not here, where others might hear. Not even to Mercedes, who is usually quite empathetic and peaceable. 

Instead, she tries to pretend—as she always does—that she is speaking to a new Company recruit, and that the battle they fought had a  _ point _ .

“You were wonderful, Mercedes. You kept Flayn safe, and guarded the rear—exactly as we needed.”

Mercedes’ smile widens a little, finally meeting her eyes. “Thank you, Professor. Well, I better get these dishes finished. I don’t want to be late for class tomorrow.”

“Of course. Good night.”

Mercedes exchanges the pleasantry, dipping a quick, short curtsy at Byleth before she scurries across the hall to the kitchen. The urge to stare after her is strong, but Byleth refrains. Staring isn’t simply rude, here; staring will garner questions. “What’s wrong? What are you thinking about? Was it something I said?” 

Those questions should be simple enough to answer, but they aren’t. They never have been, to some degree, but it’s worse, here, among these strange people with their strange ways and stranger assumptions. 

How could Byleth explain that she’s trying to understand them, without them being insulted? Some of them might could see their way to her side of things, but most would be insulted at the very idea that they are as inscrutable to her as they claim she is to them. After all, their world is “normal.”  _ She  _ is broken. 

Byleth leaves the dining hall before anyone can see her frown. Her mask is slipping; it  _ keeps  _ slipping. For a brief moment, surrounded by the bright smiles of her students, Byleth thought that might be okay. 

And maybe it is.  _ Maybe _ . 

Her steps dwindle to a pause. She stands in the grassy courtyard in front of the academy classrooms, and watches the star-lit sky. The wind is pleasantly cold as it whistles through the monastery architecture, tugging at her hair and clothes. It’s almost enough for her to imagine she isn’t here. 

Byleth has never been terribly imaginative. It’s difficult to pretend she’s in a forest without the help of trees or birds, but she could be on the outskirts of a strange town, or in the middle of some ancient ruin, or…

The possibilities are limited by the height of the architecture, the quiet of the monastery, and her own lack of experience. She’s better at battlefield tactics than wishful thinking. 

Which is why she’s so certain the green-haired girl whispering at the back of her mind is real. And why she’s inclined to believe the instinct telling her that girl, Sothis, is asleep again. There’s no rational reason to think this. Certainly, Sothis has made a habit of sneaking into conversations when Byleth isn’t paying attention. But over the past few months, Byleth has been mindful of the girl’s presence; enough to notice that their connection isn’t entirely one sided. 

There’s a weight to Sothis, for lack of a better descriptor. That weight lessens when Sothis is awake and aware; like a toddler who has learned to hold themselves up. At the moment, Sothis is a heavy, solid presence in the back of Byleth’s mind. If she were physically present, she’d be snoring.

This presents an opportunity. Not only is her constant companion asleep, but so, too, are most of the monastary’s denizens.

It’s funny, in a sad sort of way, how alone Byleth has felt since coming here. Though surrounded by people on a daily basis, so many of them are strangers or suspect in her eyes that it’s been difficult to find a moment to just be herself. Even in her own head there are strangers. 

She casts her gaze up, counting the windows of the abbey until she finds her father’s office. The window is bright; firelit and flickering. He is awake. 

The faintest smile tugs at her lips, and this time Byleth allows it. Yes, tonight she has been afforded a rare opportunity, indeed; one she intends to exploit. Maybe this time she’ll get some answers.

#

The second story of the abbey is dim. The candles lit intermittently along the interior corridor cast unsteady shadows along the stone, but even that light only goes so far. That’s a good. Most of the people who live or work on this floor should be asleep, or headed that way.

Byleth has made a point of walking heavier than usual while in the monastery; not enough to be ridiculous, but enough that few are aware how quiet she is when she wants to be. Here, she switches her gait to that of the hunter in the forest, the assassin in the night. If someone were to exit a room they would see her, but otherwise but otherwise no one should hear her come or go. That is key. 

_ That is also very, very paranoid _ . The thought sounds like her father. Which is both fair and ironic, given her quarry. He taught her everything she knows, after all.

She stops at his door, briefly testing the knob. Unlocked. Slowly, and with care for the hinges she knows to squeak, Byleth pushes the door open by degrees and slides inside, closing the door just as carefully behind herself. 

At the desk, Jeralt stops writing to watch as his daughter steals his spare cloak off the office couch, folds it, and uses it to temporarily seal the gap between the door and floorboards.

When she’s done, they stare at each other for a long, quiet moment. There are so many things Byleth has wanted to ask him these past few months. So many questions tumbling around her mind, keeping her awake, plaguing her days. Questions she doesn’t dare ask when she can’t be sure who is listening. The monastery is unsettling in its own way, and Byleth can never allow herself to be entirely comfortable. 

That isn’t to say she hasn’t had fun. She likes her students. Teaching is rewarding; more so than mercenary work, which never fully settled with her. Some days she’s even so busy she can almost forget the oddity. Inevitably, though, someone will say or do something that sets the questions off again. 

Sometimes its as simple as catching sight of Rhea across the square, watching her. 

Sometimes it’s Dimitri admitting he didn’t believe Byleth was human.

When Jereth speaks his voice is gentle and soft; the tone he only uses when they’re alone. “Bye? Something wrong, sweetheart?”

His voice breaks the spell over her. She steps abruptly away from the door, quickly crossing to his desk and coming to kneel beside his chair. Though Byleth wants to face him on level ground for this conversation, she is more concerned with being overheard. There are too many ears in the abbey; too many people whose motivations are not clear.

“You tell me,” she says, mimicking his tone and volume. “Is something wrong here?”

Jeralt sighs. He cups his daughter’s mask in one hand—it’s always the mask, when she’s like this; guarded and untrusting. She wonders if he doesn’t believe she’s human, either.

He starts to speak and stops, again, glancing to the door. A small gesture, but one which confirms Byleth’s paranoia. She felt he was avoiding having a real conversation with her, and thought their surroundings might be why. Now she’s certain of it. 

“It was a long day,” she says. “The students all went to bed early. Seems as though most of the staff did as well.”

Her father’s laugh is quiet and relieved. “I see. In that case…”

She waits, but it seems that’s all Jeralt is planning to say. And isn’t that typical? Isn’t that  _ him _ ? 

Byleth frowns, and this time she doesn’t restrain herself. Her brow furrow ever deeper for each second Jeralt continues to withhold information. Frustration saps at her willpower.

This is Hyrm all over again. This is Enbarr and Aegir and all the other times he’s held his tongue “for her own good.” Has it always been this way, or just since she lost her memory? She doesn’t know, obviously. She wants to believe it’s new, but maybe his habitual silence is as much an answer for her overwhelming paranoia and distrust as anything else.

The mask is shattering quickly now. The careful control she’s kept for months on end is coming to an end, and Jeralt does nothing to stop it.

Byleth stands abruptly, slamming one hand on his desk too hard; too loud. But her voice, while intense, remains low as she says, “ _ Dammit _ , dad. What is going on here?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit. What are we  _ doing _ ?”

“I believe,  _ Professor _ , you are teaching a class, and I am conducting the local Knighthood.” 

“Are you—” Byleth snap her mouth shut. She’s coming dangerously close to shouting, and that’s too far. It’s written all over her Jeralt’s face which, despite his neutral tone of voice, is disapproving and cross. 

That look is a warning; not merely about her shouting, but about  _ what _ she is shouting. Again, Byleth remembers the door, and his glance that seemed to confirm some of her suspicions. She cannot afford to lose her temper.

And she does have a temper. That would surprise her students. That would surprise everyone here, probably. Even Seteth. Even Catherine.

Byleth swallows it down like a hard, sour pill. She relaxes her shoulders, eases the tension out of her neck. The mask reshapes; thin, but present. 

“Please,” she says again, evenly this time. “I can’t keep this up if I don’t know why.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“Not this long. Not with so many—” Strangers. 

Her eyes sting, hot and itchy with guilt, but she won’t cry. She never cries. And she won’t apologize, either, not even in thought. As much progress as she believed she was making with them, Dimitri’s comment proved it isn’t real. At least not with him, and that may be the bitterest pill of all. 

Sweet, kind,  _ thoughtful  _ Dimitri who didn’t believe she was human.

It doesn’t matter that he’s supposedly learned better. That he thought those things at all is what hurts. And she can’t say anything. She can’t tell him the truth.

Jareth takes her hand and tugs her into his lap. She goes willingly, curling up against his chest like a toddler. He wraps his arms around her, and for the first time in months Byleth feels safe, and loved. It’s a relief to simply be alone with the one person in this gargantuan labyrinth who actually understands her; who doesn’t expect her to have “normal” reactions, or say the things they want to hear. The one person she is certain she can trust. 

Even if he won’t tell her the truth. 

Then, with his face hidden against her hair, and speaking so low she can barely hear him, Jeralt says, “I’ll answer what I can, but you have to accept that there are things I won’t tell you right now. That’s for both our sakes.”

Trust. Byleth closes her eyes. She has to trust him. What other choice does she have?

“Why did you take the job? And don’t tell me it was the pay. We were already contracted.” In the mercenary business, your word is as good as gold. But the second they’d found themselves in the Church’s sights, Jeralt had thrown away a contract like it was rancid meat—despite being simultaneously hostile to the proposition. His reaction had been bizarre, but Byleth had followed his lead, like always. She thought he would tell her why eventually, not knowing then how long he’d keep his tongue. 

His voice lowers even further, but his words are steady and carefully, pointedly neutral.

“Tell me, Bye, after everything you’ve seen here, would you refuse the Church’s request? Even indirectly?”

Indirectly—as in, not from Rhea but from someone directly connected to her? Or indirectly as in “Sorry, but we have a job already. I’ll get back to you?” and then cutting ties? Or… 

Byleth thinks back, considering the day they were packing up to leave when three fancily-dressed people came screaming out of the woods, begging them for help. That had been… if not fine, then normal-ish. Hell, it was the sort of situation they usually greeted as a windfall. They’d known some crews who arranged that sort of “save” just to fleece a bit of extra coin in hard times. 

But when Alois turned up on the kids’ heels, her father had gone pale. No one else seemed to notice his reluctance, or cared how uneasily he accepted the escort job for those nobles… 

At the time, Byleth thought it was because Alois kept bringing up Jeralt’s past. Her father was a lot of things: blunt, demanding, kind. Forthrite, he was not. 

That was fine. Byleth was used to it, not only because he’d raised her but because most of the mercs she’d grown up with were similar. The people who turned to their trade usually came with less than pleasant histories attached. Few enjoyed having their pasts dredged up. Those who did often had the sort of pasts you were better off not knowing. She’d grown used to accepting a certain amount of mystery in the people with whom she associated.

But all Jeralt had to do was say “Sorry, we have plans,” and walk off. Or he could have assigned a small unit to take the nobles home while the main force continued on their way. He didn’t have to stop everything for Alois.

And that, Byleth had to believe, was entirely because of their history. Either her father felt more strongly about Alois than she first thought, or…

Or he didn’t want to indirectly refuse the church. Which, yes, would include Alois.

OK, so she understood how they got to the Monastery. But then—then Rhea saw  _ her _ . Byleth’s unease deepens the more she thinks about the Archbishop’s calculating gaze hidden behind polite smiles. 

Rhea saw Byleth, and immediately decided that she would be the new professor. It was framed as a proposal, but it wasn’t one. Byleth understood that right away. Still, she’d been prepared to write it off as her paranoia speaking, until Rhea turned to Jeralt and offered him his old job back with barely a pause. 

There was no world in which Rhea had not already realized that Jeralt faked his own death to get away from  _ them, _ from  _ her _ . If it was obvious to Byleth, everyone else had to already know. There was just no other reason why Jeralt wouldn’t have contacted them in the… what? Twenty years since that fire? Since they’d written him off as dead?

The church treats it casually, but their off-handed comments have teeth.

When Jeralt accepted his position, Byleth followed suit. She was too well trained to argue with him in public, even if she didn’t completely understand what was going on.

And the longer they’re here, the more she understands her father’s long ago flight.

Rhea’s mission assignments for her students are a mixed bag of the clearly necessary—routing bandits and highwaymen—to the downright suspicious. The death of Lonato haunts Byleth nearly as much as it does Ashe. Furthermore, Ashe’s assumption that the Western Church was pulling Lonato’s strings was nearly as flawed as Rhea’s insistence the same party orchestrated her own assassination attempt. 

To Byleth, it seems far more likely this was all a carefully orchestrated justification to grab more power for the Central Church. A notion which makes Rhea a figure to be feared. 

So, understanding everything she does now, would Byleth directly refuse an order from Rhea? 

No. 

But she’d thought— Byleth swallows, hard.

She’d thought Jeralt was made of tougher material than her. She thought he would refuse, if he believed getting involved with Rhea was a bad idea. Which either meant Jeralt wasn’t the man she thought he was, or Rhea was even more dangerous than she yet knew. 

Finally, after what must have been a very long time, Byleth shakes her head. 

“Good girl,” Jeralt says softly. Such a statement could be condescending, but it isn’t. Not from him. 

“So that’s it, then?” She asks, after he’s gone quiet too long. “We’re stuck doing her dirty— _ this _ ?”

“Does that bother you?”

Byleth nods.

“We’re mercenaries, Bye. Don’t forget that.”

The comment borders on Dimitri’s own. Not the one from tonight, but another he’d made only a week or two before. His voice echoes in her thoughts,  _ “When we first met, I thought you were nothing more than a cold-hearted mercenary.” _

She sits up and glares at her father. She isn’t sure who she’s more angry at: him, Dimitri, or herself for the curious stinging of her eyes.

“Hey.” Jeralt takes her shoulders in both hands, and gives long look. “What’s with that look?”

“We’re not like that.” She shouldn’t need to tell him this. He’s the one who devised their code: no children, no plunder, no serial killers in the ranks. They were selective about their work and their hires. It’s what made them stand out. It’s why they had a decent reputation. At least, that is what Byleth has always believed. Was she just naive?

“Not like what?”

“Nothing. It’s—It’s nothing.”

“Try that line again with about ten times more sincerity and I might believe you.”

Despite herself, Byleth chuckles. She blinks until her eyes no longer sting and takes a deep breath. Jeralt is like a dog with a bone, sometimes. He won’t let her walk away without an explanation. They’re very much alike in this way.

It feels so childish, though; telling him that Dimitri said something which upset her. They were just words. What’s more, those were all words she’d heard before. 

Byleth was never one to share much of herself with strangers. She’d learned a long time past that getting close to people was a bad idea; at least until you were sure they would be there the next day; the next week; the next month. Too many people she’d let herself love had died gruesome, horrible deaths… often in front of her. Sometimes because of her. 

She was used to people assuming she was emotionless because she tried so hard to present herself that way to the world. Ever since the accident that took her earliest memories, Byleth has found it easier to retreat behind her mental mask than engage with the world directly. It’s safer, and it keeps people from asking questions for which she never seems to have the right answers.

So why did Dimitri saying those things hurt so damned much?

Partly because he truly believed it wasn’t an act, though she’d allowed her guard to drop with him several times, now. He believed she’d developed emotions these past few months. Though he never said the word “broken,” she’d heart it all the same. Dimitri thought she was broken. 

And Byleth couldn’t tell him otherwise. That was the major problem. He said these things, and the most she’d responded with—well. The most that slipped out before she caught herself was “ouch.” 

Dimitri apologized, but he didn’t understand. And how could he, when she couldn’t explain? When she was silenced by chains he didn’t seem to notice?

“They’re my age,” she hears herself whisper. “I’m, what? Two? Maybe three years older than them? I can’t be more than that. You wouldn’t know it, though, listening to them. Listening to us.”

Jeralt is silent a moment, watching her. She wonders if maybe he’ll tell her how old she is, now. Or does he actually not remember? His own age wasn’t a priority for him, so neither was his daughter’s.

_ It never seemed strange before we came here…  _

“You’ve led a very different life. I may have sheltered you from the church, but they were sheltered from other things.”

“That isn’t—I don’t mean that they sound young or naive.”

“Oh?”

“Okay, sometimes they do. But a lot of the time they don’t. Many of them—particularly nobles of lesser houses, like Ingrid—are more mature than half the Company.” 

Jeralt chuckled. “I’d believe that.”

“But then there are other moments, when they’re going off about something and I want to comfort them, or tell them they’re wrong, but I can’t.”

“Can’t you?”

“There’s too much truth to it.”

“And you are the arbiter of truth, I see.”

Byleth feels her face heat. She turns away, but Jeralt slaps her knee affectionately. “Don’t do that. Give me an example.”

A thousand come to mind, but Byleth pushes the smaller ones aside. It’s the big ones that matter. No,  _ the _ big one.

She drops her voice again, “You remember the incident with Lord Lonato?”

Instantly, Jeralt sobers as well. He nods, stiffly. “Ashe was upset?”

“Yes, but the problem was Dimitri.” Now that she’s talking about it, the words are easy. They’re like a weight lifting off her mind. “He was distraught. Completely beside himself at having to carve down peasants in the field.”

“That’s never easy.”

“No, and I don’t fault him for that. What struck me was his assertion that this was different from regular warfare. And for some stupid reason, I tried to be honest with him. I told him  _ that _ —killing peasants in a field— _ that _ is what war always comes down to.” 

“And he said?”

“He got a little belligerent. Continued to assert that it’s different when it’s just knights slaughtering each other. And then he called he me a monster.”

That isn’t entirely true. He called her a monster a few days later. Somehow, the two have become linked in her mind. 

Jeralt is still waiting. Byleth shrugs, looking everywhere but her father’s face. “I let him vent, after that. He eventually apologized. He still doesn’t agree with whatever he thought my point was, but he’s since decided that I do care in my own way. I’m not just ‘some cold-hearted mercenary.”

“Ah. I see.” 

When she finally dares look at him, she finds Jeralt watching her with a particular light in his eyes that she doesn’t understand. “What?”

He shakes his head. “What  _ did  _ you mean? By war always coming down to killing peasants in a field?”

“Really, dad?”

“Indulge me.”

Heaving a sigh, Byleth stands up and paces around his desk to plop into a seat. This is a regular conversation, now. She can have it normally, if still at a low volume. “That’s where it always ends up, isn’t it? Not enough nobles are like Dimitri—or, if they are, they don’t act like it. 

“How many times have they offered us contracts to put down this or that peasant rebellion? How many times have we marched into war zones where soldiers rip the bread out of their own people’s mouths? War is always the worst for the people at the bottom. These nobles playing their war games, treating it like they’re just a fun past time—”

Perhaps it isn’t such a regular conversation afterall. Byleth presses her lips into a hard line.

“And you can’t say those things to them,” he says, but this time there’s no question in his voice, just understanding. 

She shakes her head. 

“What did you think— _ really _ think—of the battle today?”

“I think it’s disrespectful and foolish,” Byleth says immediately, not bothering to put more thought into it. She’s been lying all day. She has to be honest sometime.

“Disrespectful to whom? The dead?”

“Partly. But the dead are just that: dead. It’s more disrespectful to all the people these students are going to murder in the coming years.” She shakes her head. “They’re always going on about it in class—Oh, not in  _ that  _ way, sure. They talk big about noble battle and worthy opponents. The only one who usually seems to comprehend that what they’re studying, what they’re fantasizing about, is the act of  _ murder  _ is, well,  _ Dimitri _ . I thought—”

Byleth’s voice hitches around the words. “I thought once they’d had a taste of real battle they would come to their senses. I thought, surely, once they’d felt their swords dig into another human being’s flesh, they’d be less hungry for death. Once they’d smelled burning flesh, they’d think twice about cheering the opportunity to burn more. And for a time, they are.”

“They have time to forget,” Jeralt says, softly. “You haven’t been afforded that opportunity. Or, you weren’t until now.”

Byleth presses her lips together and considers that. He has a point. 

As far back as Byleth can remember, she’s been a mercenary. Admittedly, that memory isn’t very long. A head injury saw to that, erasing all but the dimmest memory of her first childhood. Jeralt raised her a second time, on a hundred fields of battle. They were hardly ever at peace for more than a couple weeks at a time. She understood the horrors of war—long, never ending war—better than most of the knights in this monastery probably did. 

To her surprise, Jeralt isn’t finished speaking. “I suppose I have a higher tolerance for it because I used to be like them.”

“You were?”

He nods. “I… lived here, remember? There were battles, sure, but there was also peacetime. You might see a skirmish with bandits every month or so, but long engagements were rare. Nothing of the likes you’re used to.”

Jeralt rubs the back of his neck, looking thoughtful. “The training has to be fun, to some degree, or they aren’t going to keep up with it. You—you used to have fun, I think, back when it was just… But you don’t remember that, do you?”

He sounds… hopeful? Steeling herself to disappoint him yet again, Byleth looks down at the desk between them and shakes her head.

“I wish I could, but—”

“It isn’t your fault, Bye.” When she looks up, he flashes her a tired smile. “Combat was one of the few things you didn’t have to relearn, and you barely had a need to practice with us being in the field so much. Besides, we don’t take recruits who are there just for bloodshed.”

Byleth nods. If they had, they’d have been hardly more than bandits themselves. Plenty of so-called mercenaries straddled that line.

“So you’re saying I should be patient with them.”

“Yes. It sounds like this Dimitri has his head on straight about things, more or less. Seems like he’s going to make a great King, someday. Though he’d probably be better if you explained the misunderstanding.”

“I can’t,” she reminded him.

“And why is that?” 

She fixes him with a flat look, and gestures pointedly at the door. 

“You think that affects this?”

“I—” She did, but why didn’t he? Byleth frowns, trying again to piece this all together. Finally she shakes her head. “The—It’s encouraged, isn’t it? Their bloodlust? All this talk of peace and love, but step a toe out of line and you die for it.”

“We’ve fought battles for people over less.”

“Someone was always going to fight those battles. It was better it was us. At least we—”

Byleth stops.  _ At least we only killed the soldiers _ . That’s what she was going to say, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that the exact same argument Dimitri had put forward?

Confused by her own knot of emotions, Byleth squeezes her fists tight until her nails bite into her palms. She can still feel her father’s penetrating gaze watching her, waiting. 

“If I say something that even hints at dissent, will they try to kill us?”

To her surprise, Jeralt allows the change of subjects. He drums his fingers on the desk, considering. “I suppose anything is possible. But I think you can be honest, and not cross any boundaries. At least about this.”

“But,” she said, easing herself into the more embarrassing issue; the one that plagued her the most every time she caught herself being drawn into the student’s cheer; the one that keeps her retreating again and again behind her mask, “I’m their professor. Their superior. Should I so… informal?”

“That is a good question. I wish I had a good answer.”

#

Overall, it had been a productive talk. Byleth didn’t quite feel that way, though. 

She left the office a little less quietly than she’d come; perhaps someone would notice but, now that she was a trifle less tense, she had to admit there hadn’t been much point in secrecy. Surely that was more conspicuous than a girl—woman—visiting her own father. It had been a silly reaction in a series of silly reactions, made possible by her own unease with this place, and her position.

Neither of those things had changed, but being able to talk honestly for a few minutes helped. Jeralt’s good sense and easy presence always did. If they had to be stuck here, she was glad they were stuck together.

But nothing he said answered the burning insecurity she felt at the prospect of allowing her students closer than they already were. 

Making friends was never Byleth’s strong suit. As Professor Hanneman pointed out, many of the mercenaries she’d spent time around feared her. They viewed her much as Dimitri had: inhuman, cold, broken. Their old nickname for her, the Ashen Demon, was at once a source of pride and shame. Pride, because she’d managed to bury her true feelings so completely that many talked themselves out of fighting her based upon reputation alone. Shame, because it led to moments like this. Misunderstandings like this. Breakdowns.

What to do about Dimitri?

Was there anything  _ to  _ do? 

Probably not. Though Jeralt seems to think it would be okay to let him in, Byleth knows better. She knows the parts she withheld, even from her father. Perhaps especially from him. 

How could she tell him about her heart skipping a beat when Dimitri nears? The way her stomach flips when he smiles in her direction?

She knows what a crush is, in theory. She’s always wondered why people get so carried away about these things. Now she is beginning to understand. How she wishes to return to a time when she didn’t. 

“You are so exhausting.”

The voice that isn’t a voice stops Byleth in her tracks. Again, surprised. When had the weight left the back of her mind? 

A cold trickle runs down Byleth’s spine. It was a very long time ago, wasn’t it?

_ <<How much did you hear? _ >>

“A fair amount,” says Sothis. The voice seems as though it’s outside of her, but Byleth knows it is not. Or, rather, no one can hear Sothis but her. Those may not be the same thing. “It is difficult to sleep when you insist on being so loud.”

Byleth wars against the twin urges to snap and apologize. No one invited this girl into her head.

But, Byleth resigns herself, the girl did not intend to invade. She is as much as prisoner of this arrangement as Byleth herself. It doesn’t do for them to be enemies. 

“If it were up to me, I would be free of you,” Sothis agrees. “Though, I admit you are far more interesting than I initially gave you credit for. And smarter.”

Faint praise, but she’ll take it. Byleth continues the long walk to her dorm room. 

“For what it is worth, we have bigger issues to worry over than romance.”

_ <<I am aware. And there isn’t any romance.>> _

“Have you forgotten that I am aware of your every thought? Do not answer that, I know you have not. The boy does not reciprocate, but you are certainly interested in him. I believe this qualifies as a romance, however one-sided.”

Stung and embarrassed, Byleth shoves both emotions back into the hole where they ought to properly remain. 

Sothis’ words are still harsh, but her tone is somewhat more apologetic as she says, “Oh, do not be that way. It is only the truth.”

_ <<I understand. You can go back to sleep now. I won’t be loud anymore.>> _

“I plan to. But I felt I should say…” The girl hesitates. When she speaks again, Byleth almost believes there is kindness in her voice. “You do not have to hide from me. I would appreciate if you did not try, in fact. Despite our situation, I have become fond of you. If I must be stuck with someone, I am glad to have found so capable a partner.”

More than a little confused by the speech, but nonetheless pleased in an odd sort of way, Bylth nods briefly to the air. “I’m glad.”

“Professor?”

Byleth, hand paused upon her doorknob, stills at the soft voice behind her. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud to Sothis, but of course he would be the one to catch her slip.

“Sorry,” says Sothis, and the rare apology from her telepathic symbiant is enough to break Byleth’s frozen state. 

She turns to see Dimitri standing behind her, looking tired but alert. There’s a book tucked beneath his arm. 

Sothis mutters, “He must have been in the library again,” echoing Byleth’s own observation.

“Studying again?”

“Ah, yes, I was,” Dimitri says, glancing at the book in his arms like it told his secret. It technically had, though the fault was his own. 

But then his gaze is back upon her; wary and uncertain. “I thought you said something just now.”

Again, the question: how close can she let him? Could she tell him—

“No!” yells Sothis, and her own thoughts confirm. 

“No,” she says, barely managing not to cringe at the other girl’s anger; Sothis clearly didn’t like that Byleth considered it, if only for a moment. “I was just headed to bed.”

“Of course, and I have disturbed you. My apologies, professor.” He bows, quick and awkward, and hurries past her on the stairs to his own room. 

Did he even really want to know, or had he just asked out of politeness?

Given Dimitri’s strict adherence to protocol, it was probably the latter. Most likely he thought she was talking to herself, as broken people do.

“You have got to get over this,” Sothis announces. 

_ <<There’s nothing to get over.>> _

“I am not talking about Dimitri.” There’s a scoff, followed by a sigh. “Okay, perhaps I am, in part. But not only him. I appreciate your dedication to the mysteries of this place and our own missing memories, but this destructive line of thought is not helping. You are not broken.”

_ <<That’s amusing, coming from you.>> _

“What is that supposed to mean?”

_ <<Just—>> _

“Actually,” says Dimitri. Byleth whirls, finding him standing a few paces down the walk—next to Dedue’s door. Nervously, Dimitri rubs the back of his neck. “Could I get your opinion on something, professor?”

Her heart hammers. “Of course.”

“I know how well we did today, but I cannot help thinking it could have gone better.”

“Oh?”

“There was too much… not death, obviously, but if it had been a real battle, it would have been a slaughter.”

Byleth didn’t believe he’d noticed. She is careful to keep the emotion from her face. “Yes, it would have been.”

“Do you remember the Duscar soldiers we battled? The ones we allowed to flee?”

She did.

“Do you believe it would be possible, in war, to take prisoners in such a way? To avoid death as much as possible, even upon the field?”

Her father was right. Dimitri will make a singular king.

How to answer, though? What serves him best? Complete, if pessimistic, honesty, or naive words he might appreciate more? 

Naive would serve him better in this place, with the monastery's beautiful exterior and dangerous heart. Perhaps they would give lip service to sparing lives, but given Rhea’s plentiful speeches about killing non-believers and stomping out dessent, Byleth cannot bring herself to hope.

Still, when she opens her mouth, she finds she also cannot bring herself to lie. Not again. 

“Sometimes, perhaps. It’s a complicated situation. If you truly want my thoughts on the subject…” she pauses, glances down the dormitory, and then out into the grassy field. She doesn’t want to speak here, still, but if she could just imagine she were elsewhere… 

She gestures for him to follow, and trots down the stairs and into the grass. It’s soft beneath her feet, and nowhere near as overgrown as a meadow, but it will do. When Byleth sits down, Dimitri stares incredulously.

“Are we settling in for a long chat, then?”

“I think we’re overdue. Unless I’ve misjudged—”

“No! No. This is just fine.” 

He settles beside her, and Byleth tries to believe that they are on watch for the Company, listening to their fellow mercenaries snore as they rest up for tomorrow’s battle. It isn’t as difficult as it used to be.

“Do you remember what I said after we fought Lonato?”

Dimitri’s smile vanishes, replaced by a now-familiar deep rooted anger that sizzles somewhere inside of him. He nods, stiffly. “You said that death was a peasant’s lot.”

Her shock is so sudden and real Byleth cannot hide it. Dimitri must have seen, because he relaxes a little and looks contrite.

“I may be paraphrasing a little.”

“He may be paraphrasing a lot,” remarks Sothis. The girl sounds just as scandalized as Byleth feels.

The urge to clam up again is strong, but Byleth fights through it. Remember, she tells herself, you are talking to a mercenary. Not a prince. Not Dimitri. A fellow mercenary. “That is not what I meant at all.” 

“What then?”

The words come out in fits and starts as Byleth forces them past her lips. Her misused imagination struggles to keep her comfortable with these admissions, but to his credit Dimitri does not draw away. 

“You called me cold, once. I know you apologized, and said you were wrong, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard that. And not without good reason. 

“Mercenaries have that reputation, as a whole. We are seen as animals by many, barely human. Our job is not an easy one; neither mentally nor emotionally. We are killers for hire. We are very well acquainted with death; with war, and the way it wounds people. In many ways, we are the walking wounds of any and all countries—the survivors who never leave the battlefield.”

Byleth draws in a deep breath. “I said ‘this is what war always comes down to.’ Because it is. In every war I have seen—no. Every  _ battle _ —the peasants are always the ones who suffer most. Sometimes it is because a small group have been spurred to take up arms against a foe they could never hope to beat. Sometimes it is because soldiers marched through their village on their way to greater battles, leaving scarcity in their wake. 

“ _ Most _ often, it’s because the nobility have forcibly removed the villages’ hardy youth, putting them to arms while robbing the old and young of hearth and home to feed their soldiers.”

As she speaks, Dimitri becomes visibly paler. Some of these things he had already guessed at, she believes. Others he hadn’t. Or, he hadn’t allowed himself to consider. How many stories had she heard them pass about their ‘duty’ to protect the common folk? If only that were as true in practice as these students believed.

But then, he surprises her by adding, “Sometimes armies march upon a country of innocents.”

Duscar. 

Byleth finds herself reaching for his hand, like she would her father or any of his men. He glances at her fingers, somehow paler than his own despite her years of hard labour. 

“I did not mean you shouldn’t care. I’m ecstatic that you do, honestly. It’s—it’s a relief, knowing that you consider these things.”

She catches Dimitri’s smile as he ducks his head, and has to return one of her own. 

“But Dimitri… Fighting? Death? Killing? These are all hard realities of our world. No one should go about refusing to fight or kill for  _ any  _ reason, no matter how appealing stouche pacifism sounds. There will always be someone who takes advantage of those ideals to become even more brutal than simple war could ever hope to be.”

“So you believe we were right to kill Lonato instead of trying to negotiate?”

_ Dammit _ . More obviously than she’d like, Byleth’s gaze darts around—but they are alone. As alone as they could hope to be, assuming their voices haven’t carried.

She lowers hers, and meets his gaze. “I didn’t say that.”

To his credit, Dimitri catches on quickly this time. He nods, and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“As for sparing lives on the battlefield… that ones is far more tricky. There are instances where you can get away with it, such as the Duscar resistance. But there’s an equal possibility that will only earn you a knife in the back.”

A knife most likely wielded by his own men feeling they were betrayed by Dimitri’s lack of bloodlust.

What is going to happen when he becomes king? Byleth presses her lips together, momentarily consumed by abject fear for the sweet boy who would rule a people consumed by blind bigotry he didn’t share. Even if he brought the true culprit to justice, would they follow him to peace? Or would he be sacrificed as a martyr to their cause?

“If you believe we have to kill, at least sometimes, then why point out the sacrifices of the peasants? Why look so disapproving every time Felix grandstands about worthy opponents?”

Byleth looks up at the stars. This is the part that’s so difficult to put into words. It occurs to her that, perhaps, she is the one misunderstanding them. Maybe she is splitting hairs too fine to see. 

But now that she’s aired all of this, she understands the thing that’s been bothering her most; the bit she’s been too afraid to say here; the part Dimitri most needs to consider.

“You’re right to think I dislike how casually the deaths of people are discussed, here. But, I don’t think that’s what I was trying to impart.”

“What then?”

“Mm… You were upset the peasants tried to fight against knights because they had no training. You said, so many times, that they had no hope of winning, and therefore should not have fought at all. You were so close but you never quite got to the crux of the matter.”

Dimitri’s fingers twitch beneath hers. She thinks he will draw away.

He doesn’t. Still, his brow furrows as he asks, “And what is that?”

Feeling tired, and far too old and too young at the same time, Byleth settles her mask back in place as she regards him. 

“They knew they had no hope of winning. So did Lonato. Winning was never on the table.”

“Then why—”

“Because sometimes death is the only way of getting a point across. Sometimes a cause is worth being the one to die.”

For a moment, Byleth fears she has gone too far. Dimitri is smart. She doesn’t have to mention the church directly for him to understand her implication. Lonato’s doomed rebellion was directly a response to Rhea’s harsh-handed policies, and it was clear to Byleth that the common folk of Lonato’s village had been on his side of it. They were willing to die grandstanding against the power of Rhea’s people, if it meant someone in power might listen to them. 

His mistake had been assuming most nobles would bother. 

“I see,” Dimitri says, finally. “You have given me quite a lot to consider, Professor.”

“I’m glad.” Sighing, she glances up at the moon which has already lost it’s zenith. 

“We should sleep,” says Dimitri, who has followed her gaze. He does not move to rise, however. Neither does Byleth. For a long while, they sit in comfortable silence, watching the stars, each lost in their own thoughts and their hands folded together upon the grass.

Perhaps some judicious honesty isn’t a bad thing after all. 

  
  



End file.
